My aged greyhound Caspian was put to sleep yesterday morning. He was 14, and had lived a full and mostly happy life, at least in later years.
An Irish track dog, he had a thoroughly mediocre racing career as "Rosedale Ricky," in which he earned a grand total of 80 Euros prize money ... then was found in 2008 dumped on the streets of Northern England, riddled with worms and mange:
We had him nearly ten years, thanks to Tia Greyhound Rescue! And he was an utter rogue in his younger days, stealing food (he learned to unzip rucksacks) and chasing anything small and furry. The first or second day we had him, I looked out of the kitchen window to see him standing on the lawn with a pigeon-wing sticking out sideways from either side of his jaws. By the time I got out there the bird had been swallowed whole!
He got shot by teenagers and taught me an interesting lesson about gun-control.
He was a pinup dog, appearing in not one but two calendars:
In January 2017 he went into congestive heart failure, but with the help of enough daily pills to make him rattle, he lived happily, if much more quietly, for another year and more, fulfilling his life-mission of making terrible stinky farts and gallons of pee.